Malfoys Always end up on top
by Shiv5468
Summary: Post War, Draco's life has been threatened. He thinks he can cope, the Minister disagrees, and he is sent to live with Hermione... Old story, pre DHH,
1. Chapter 1

Overall, life as a Malfoy was good. You had the looks, the hair, the wealth, and the power to make people run around after you doing your bidding. And being a Malfoy – whether by birth or marriage - meant that you had the sort of cunning that allowed you to exploit these gifts ruthlessly.

There had been a couple of years that had been rather sticky, and which Draco didn't like to think about too often: access to the power and wealth had been limited, he hadn't been able to have a proper haircut for months, and the only people running round after him had been Aurors. However, whenever someone was rude enough to remind him of these events, he was able to gloss over them by pointing out that it had all been character building.

There was even an element of truth in that. If he hadn't spent that time on the run with Snape, then he might well have turned into a lazy, arrogant, smug, narcissistic, solipsistic, second-rate political manoeuvrer. As it was, his political skills were second to none.

He eschewed Unforgivables and death threats, used bribes sparingly, and always had a back-up plan – something his father should have considered more carefully. Not only did Draco have a Plan B, he usually had a Plan C, if not Z. He had no intention of spending more time with his father beyond the hourly visits to Azkaban once a quarter.

As a result he was so squeaky clean the Ministry couldn't touch him, he had reduced the expenses of the Malfoy "business enterprises" by 20% and owned more Ministry officials than his father ever had. Life, apart from his mother's nagging on the issue of marriage, was good.

Which made it all the more galling that he should find himself in the position of having to rely on Potter's help.

Lucius was being considered for release from Azkaban, and it appeared that Draco and his mother were the only people that considered this to be a good thing.

A certain amount of resistance to the idea had been expected, and a subtle campaign had been mounted to sway public opinion in his favour.

He'd been photographed with widows and orphans, conveniently ignoring his father's role in arranging their condition, and the Daily Prophet (prop. D Malfoy) had run a series of editorials on the need for healing, reconciliation and forgiveness.

However, some of the dissenters were prepared to make their views known in a very pointed manner which included death threats and the delivery of parcels whose contents were guaranteed to put you off your breakfast. Draco did wonder quite where these people were finding white ferrets to send in the post, though he supposed that if you were sending them a piece at a time it did tend to cut down on costs.

His mother had taken herself off to Paris with Crabbe and Goyle as his bodyguards, and he'd been on the point of joining her when two burly Aurors had approached him at the International Floo and invited him to a meeting with the Minister in his office. Now.

It wasn't an invitation he could refuse, though he did try.

At least the Aurors had come in handy to carry his luggage.

"Minister," he said, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. "Could we make this quick? I'm due to see my mother in an hour, and she does so hate being kept waiting."

The Minister winced. "Ah yes, your mother. Narcissa. Charming woman. Erm. I don't think that being late is going to be a problem."

"Why not?" Draco's fingers closed on the arms of the chair like claws.

"She's rather asked me, I mean us, to take you into protective custody. She thinks you might be in danger."

Draco blinked. His own mother had grassed him up to the coppers. He was appalled.

He was even more appalled to find that Potter had been chosen for the task of babysitting. He wasn't any happier than Draco about the situation and was rather less skilled at hiding it.

"Do I have to?" Potter asked, sounding like a toddler being asked to go to bed. "Can't we find someone else to look after him? I'm sure he doesn't really need protective custody."

"I wasn't aware that the Aurors were now a democracy, Minister," Draco said, with the exquisite insolence of a man who knew where the biggest campaign donations had come from and just how much influence that bought you. "How very progressive of you."

Potter glared at Draco, who manifestly failed to burst into flames.

"We have a duty to protect Mr Malfoy from these death threats," the Minister said to Potter. "And if that involves certain sacrifices on your part, then you will just have to put up with it."

"I think the sacrifices are all on my side," Draco said mournfully. "Grimmauld Place can hardly compare to Malfoy Manor. You do have House Elves, don't you? Tell me you have House Elves? Otherwise I don't think I could bear it."

"I have one House Elf. One. And he has better things to do with his time than run around looking after you," Potter grumbled.

Draco wondered when it would occur to Potter that Dobby and Malfoys were a less than felicitous combination, because the amusement that was to be derived from facing Potter with the prospect of having a new house guest was fading in the face of the horror of actually having to be that new house guest.

If he was going to be taken into protective custody, it was going to be in his own home even if that did mean having Potter on the premises.

"I was merely suggesting," Potter said slowly, trying to think of some way out of this nightmare. "I was merely suggesting," he repeated more confidently, "that, whilst Malfoy is entitled to all the help that we can give him, that Grimmauld Place may not be the best option. With all due respect, of course."

"I don't want to live with you either," put in Draco. "I'm sure that Malfoy Manor is perfectly safe."

"I'm not so sure that it is," the Minister replied. "You can't stop someone who is prepared to risk their own life for revenge."

Draco was well aware that the defences round Malfoy Manor were capable of stopping anything up to and including Dark Lords, Muggle hordes, and even his Auntie Bella. He was also aware dispersing any attackers over a wide area would only lead to awkward questions, and give the Aurors the excuse they had been waiting for to search the Manor. It was a sacrifice he might be prepared to make, but only if there were no other way.

"Indeed," said Potter. "But what concerns me, Minister, is how we could keep this quiet. You know what this place is like for gossip. All it takes is one careless word, and then everyone will know where Malfoy is, and we are back at square one."

It was a good point. Draco knew the Ministry leaked like a sieve, largely because he did all that he could to encourage it. It was vexing to think that others could take advantage of his hard work.

"You have an alternative suggestion?" the Minister asked.

"I do indeed. We circulate a Top Secret Memo round the Ministry saying that Malfoy is at Number 12 – so it's only a matter of time before everyone knows that – and in the meantime we sneak him out the back door to somewhere else. Somewhere unconnected to the Ministry at all."

The Minister considered the point for a few seconds, so that it wouldn't look like he was leaping at the first suggestion that allowed him to abdicate responsibility for the problem. "That sounds sensible; you have somewhere in mind?"

Potter nodded. "I won't say where, if you don't mind. Unless you've had Occlumency training?"

Draco narrowed his eyes; Potter was clearly up to something, and the only way to find out what was going on was to play along.

Judging by Potter's expression, he had a fairly accurate idea of what Draco was thinking – might even be using Legilimency on him – so he thought about how nice it would be to leave Potter tied to the desk with a pineapple inserted in one of his orifices.

Potter winced.

Not for the first time he thanked his Auntie Bella for teaching him Occlumency.  
Draco added Paying Potter Back to his To Do list, just after Get Father Out of Jail and ahead of Buying a New Minister. No one should have to suffer the indignity of having to think about naked Potters to maintain some privacy in their own head – Potter was so stupid he probably thought Draco fancied him or something.

As if!

Even if he were homosexual – which he wasn't, those nasty rumours about him and Zabini notwithstanding – he'd have better taste than to choose a scruffy-haired runt like Potter. Why, he'd rather shag Weasley, or even Granger!

Draco shuddered. He needed a pensieve and some brandy, and he needed them now.

This was not to be. Potter was determined to get the arrangements in place before anyone had a chance to work out what they were up to.

"If you'll excuse me, Minister," Potter said, sounding as innocent as a day old Huffelpuff, and ushered Draco from the office before he had a chance to vent any more of his well thought out objections.

Weasley was waiting for them outside, and Potter sidled off out of earshot to have an earnest conversation with his sidekick. Ron didn't appear happy with whatever suggestion Potter made, but eventually conceded the point after a heated discussion. Whatever Potter said to clinch the discussion made Ron give a crack of laughter that did nothing to allay Draco's concern that he was about to be stitched up like a kipper, and then headed off shaking his head in amusement.

Potter grinned at Draco, obviously very pleased with himself "If you'd like to follow me," he said. "We'll take the Secure Floo to Grimmauld Place."

Draco, with his luggage bobbing along behind, followed Potter as he headed off into the depths of the Aurory. Draco had never been here before – had prided himself on the fact he'd stayed out of the Auror's hands – and quickly decided that this had been a wise choice. He made a mental note to ensure that all future business would be conducted in plush restaurants over a fine meal and a reasonable claret, but nothing better than that. There was no point wasting the good stuff on those who wouldn't appreciate it. If they had to work here, they probably thought rubbing alcohol was refined.

The corridor was grey and dirty and didn't look like it had been cleaned since the day Slytherin had left Hogwarts. There was the faint aroma of desperation … and was that urine….that he had always associated with poverty.

Potter was taking him to stay with poor people. He refused; he really would rather die. It might be catching.

They came to the end of the corridor, and moved into a large room with benches along one side. A large yellow line painted across it was the only point of colour in a room that continued the theme of institutional grime.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"I'm surprised you haven't been here before," Potter replied. "It's the holding cells for people about to appear before the Wizengamot."

"You'd know more about that than me," Draco replied.

Potter's left eye twitched. "Perhaps you'd like the full tour, Malfoy. I'd be happy to lock you up in one of the cells so you can have the complete experience."

"Try it," Draco said softly. "I'm not 17 any more."

"Neither am I," Potter replied, locking eyes with him. "Neither am I."

The glaring contest was interrupted by the arrival of a grinning Ronald Weasley.  
"I've made all the arrangements, Harry. She isn't happy, but she's agreed to do it. She says you owe her big time."

"She? She who?" Draco wanted to know.

"It's on a need to know basis," Potter replied. "And you don't need to know."

Draco very nearly squawked in dismay, but remembered just in time that he was now a suave and sophisticated man of the world and that squawking was out of the question. "Of course I need to know. I might not want to stay with… with… whoever it is."

"You don't get a choice," Potter said firmly. "You just get to say thank you to the nice lady for taking you in."

"Of course I have a choice," he protested. "I'm a Malfoy. I practically own the Ministry – what I say goes."

"Aye, right oh," Ron said, and threw something at Draco. He caught it, rather than letting it mar the perfection of his face, and had barely a moment to realise that it was a portkey.

"Oh, shhhh…," he began to say, and then the room fizzed out of existence.

"…it," he finished, as he appeared at his destination.

It wasn't as bad as he had expected, being clean, bright and airy if a little cramped by his standards.

"There you are," said the witch in front of him.

Not bad looking, but not stunning either, he thought, automatically assessing her shaggability.

"My face," she said, all acid, "is up here."

"Oh joy," Draco said. "My day is now complete. Granger, I should have known it would be you."

"If you think that I'm any happier about this than you are…" she said, ruffling up for a fight.

"I don't suppose you are," he replied quickly, determined to head off the impending explosion. He'd had to flatter Dark Lords before now; he could certainly manage a stroppy Mudblood. Anything for a quiet life was the way he looked at it. "Potter and Weasel made that quite clear. And I am suitably grateful, really."

"Oh," she deflated. "Right. Well."

Draco congratulated himself on superior Gryffindor handling skills, and their inability to recognise the subtle shading of meaning in 'suitable'. Someone that simple would be easily manipulated into letting him return to the Manor.

"Some house rules then," she said. "You don't call me Mudblood, and I don't hex your bollocks off."

"Granger, I am a guest under your roof and that means that, no matter how much the strain may kill me, I'm obliged to be polite to you. The M word would not pass my lips."

She gave him the sort of look his mother always used to give him when she was trying to work out whether he was fibbing or not. He didn't like it: it made him feel transparent and about three years old again. "Very well," she said slowly. "Presumably this means that I have to be a gracious host in return, so why don't we take turns in making some suggestions that will keep friction down to a minimum?"

Granger was much more reasonable than Potter; that was very nearly a sensible idea.

"Don't talk to me until I've had my cup of tea in the morning," she said. "I need at least half an hour's peace and quiet first thing before I can be considered human."

Draco had spent a year living with Snape; he knew all about early morning homicidal mania. "The same goes for me and my coffee," he replied. "There will be coffee won't there?"

She nodded. "Can't stand the stuff myself, but one of my more temperamental collaborators requires it. Just don't drink all of it – he gets very sulky when he's deprived of his coffee and you're supposed to be here for your protection."

"I'd heard you were working with Severus." He grinned. Severus had been the one to give him the taste for dark, bitter coffee first thing, so if it was good enough for Severus then it would be good enough for him. It wouldn't have been pretty if he hadn't been able to get his fix.

"Don't touch the papers on my desk. It may not look like it, but I know where everything is. I will know if you so much as breathe on them, I will know."

"That sounds rather like housework, Granger. That's what house elves are for. Your precious papers are safe from me."

She gave him that look again, and he barely resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. "You took my assistant out to lunch last week to find out more about this project. I find it hard to believe you wouldn't be tempted to look, even if it did mean getting your hands dirty."

"You're involved in Project Brainbox?"

"Malfoy, I am Project Brainbox. I'm surprised you didn't know. I thought you knew all the gossip."

He'd thought so too, and was peeved to find out that it wasn't the case, and that he was now trapped in the same flat with Granger because his curiosity wouldn't let him leave until he had found out what Project Brainbox was all about.

He looked at Granger through narrowed eyes, and she grinned at him. "And if you're a very good boy, Malfoy, I might even tell you all about it. Eventually."

"I've never been a good boy, Granger. And I'm not about to start now," he said.

"Which is probably for the best; I expect the sun would turn black if you ever did."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he said dryly.

Granger crossed the room to a half open door. "Right, well we'd better get you settled in. You're taking my room for the duration. The wards on it are impressive, though not quite the equal of Malfoy Manor. Still, we can't go round sacrificing Muggles any more, so we have to make do."

He peered into the room, and was relieved to find that it wasn't too Muggle and that the bed was large enough for two. He tested it. It was nice and bouncy. Granger really _was_ a bit of a dark horse. "I wasn't aware that we had sacrificed any Muggles in the last couple of centuries."

"Probably not," she agreed. "Not according to the Codex Malfoyiana anyway."

He froze. "And how did you get a copy of the Codex?"

"From your library of course."

"My library?"

"Oh yes. We broke into the Manor a couple of months after you went on the run. Harry would insist that was where you were hiding out. I didn't think you'd be that stupid," she said kindly. "But you know what he's like when he's got his mind set on something."

"The wards are supposed to be unbreakable!" he protested.

"They were quite good. It took me over an hour to get in."

"An hour?" The foundations to Draco's world were trembling and he didn't like the feeling.

"I know. Shocking isn't it? I've improved a lot since then, and I don't think it would take me that long these days."

Draco was fairly sure she was trying to wind him up about the wards, she had to be; they simply couldn't be broken that easily. "You'll have to tell me all the gory details then," he said maliciously. "I'm sure you'd love to show off."

She brushed past him and tapped on the bedhead. "This knob is an emergency portkey that takes you straight to the Ministry. If something goes wrong, you activate it. Do not stop for anything."

"And what about you?"

"I wasn't joking when I said that this flat has some of the best protection you will find anywhere. I'll be setting the wards, and then running like buggery. I don't want to be here when it all kicks off. Neither do you. There are no failsafes, and I don't think either one of us wants to find out whether I can dismantle the wards on the fly."

Draco grunted an acknowledgement. Granger's spell work was noted for its efficacy and unparalleled viciousness, so if she said he had to run, he would be running and not looking back. At least it allowed him to leave her with a clear conscience. He wasn't particularly inclined to heroics, but neither did he want to explain to Potter that he'd got one of his friends killed. He was likely to get a bit tetchy about that. But there was nothing that Potter could say if Granger had told him that he had to leave.

"I'll leave you to get unpacked," she said. "Where's your luggage?"

"Still on the floor of the Ministry," he said. He had nothing more than the robes he was standing up in, and that was a situation he'd sworn never to get into again. He was going to throttle Potter.

"I'll go and try and get that sorted out then," Granger said. "And I'll put the kettle on. I expect you could do with a cup of tea before you settle down for the night."

Draco flung himself back on the bed, and covered his eyes with one arm.

He really was in hell.

When his promised cup of tea did not materialise, he dragged himself from the bed and back out into the living room. Granger was on her knees by the fire, floo calling someone. She didn't sound happy.

"I don't care what the problem is; sort it out."

There was a pause to allow the other party to explain that whatever she wanted wasn't possible.

"I suppose that will have to do then," she said. "But you'd better not forget. You may think this is funny, but then you don't have to listen to the whinging; I do."

Ah, Granger was sorting out the issue of his luggage. He really ought to object to the term whinging being applied to his legitimate and reasonable complaints about the hardships he was being forced to endure, but doubtless she had to pretend it was whinging to get Potter to take notice of her. He understood the value of telling half-truths to minions – and there could be no doubt that Potter, for all his status, was firmly under Granger's thumb.

Potter continued complaining about the manifest injustices of life for a little longer until Granger cut him off with a, "Good night, Harry."

"I take it my luggage will be arriving soon?" Draco asked.

Granger turned sharply, and her hand moved into the duelling position before dropping to her side. "You made me jump! I'm not used to having people here."

"Relax, Granger. I don't bite."

"No, but I do," she said pointedly.

"I should hope so, since you're my protector. I'd hate to think you'd gone soft in your old age."

Granger ignored him; he took that as a point scored for him.

"Tea?" she said. "I've got Earl Grey, Breakfast tea, even some Tetleys if you feel like slumming it."

"Earl Grey will be fine, thank you."

He followed her into the kitchen and watched her bustling about with fascination. He'd never seen tea made the Muggle way at all – had never seen tea made at all come to that. Tea at the Manor arrived on a tray, with biscuits, and that was that.

There was some odd device that water went into, a bit like a kettle, except that it didn't go on the hob, though it seemed to heat the water anyway. He sat down uninvited at the little table in the kitchen, and thought how peculiar it was that muggles didn't know about magic and yet could do things that were so close to the way that normal people lived.

She didn't bother with a pot, but brewed up in a mug, and thought it was acceptable to sit in the kitchen rather than in a proper dining room; you couldn't really expect proper manners from her type.

"Harry will bring your stuff round in the morning," she offered, hands clasped round the mug. "He's off doing something important tonight, so he can't do it this evening. But you'll have your clothes by breakfast at the latest."

"I suppose that will have to do."

"Er, yes. I don't know if you want to borrow some stuff," she said. "I've got a spare toothbrush, and soap and things, but perhaps you'd like some pyjamas?"

"Not necessary," he replied, and Granger went pink. Draco wondered if she was contemplating the thought of a naked Malfoy in her bed. He rather thought she was. Still, you couldn't blame her for that even if it was a bit creepy. He hoped she wasn't going to get ideas, just because they were under the same roof.

Granger drained her mug, and put it on the side in the kitchen. "I'm off to bed. If there's nothing else you need, I'll see you in the morning."

He sat there a little longer after she'd gone, sipping his tea, and thinking hard about his situation. He needed his luggage, and not just for the clean clothes and other little luxuries the House Elves had placed in there. He wouldn't put it past Potter to be searching it before delivering it, though there was little point – he wasn't amateurish enough to leave his toys out in plain sight.

Rather like Christmas, he decided to go to bed early in the hopes that it would bring his luggage more quickly. The sheets were cool and soft, and pleasantly scented but sleep proved elusive. His brain couldn't stop turning over the issue of who was threatening him, and how that could be turned to his best advantage. There was only one thing that could stop him thinking about self-preservation and power and that was sex.

Because Draco was a Malfoy and they were nothing if not perverse, he found that wanking in Granger's bed whilst imagining her bent in all sorts of twisty positions was more than usually stimulating.

Because he wasn't stupid, he made sure to cast proper cleansing charms afterwards.

Breakfast passed off rather well, all things considered.

He found a rather nice silk kimono hanging in the wardrobe, which he thought added the necessary style to counteract the rather prosaic striped pyjamas that Granger thought was appropriate for breakfast in mixed company. She certainly seemed to think so, and stared at him appreciatively.

The breakfast she gave him – something odd called Coco Pops, which were dark brown and crunchy and actually ok for something Muggle, though he wouldn't admit it – kept crackling at him in a really irritating way, so he cast Silencio on it.

She seemed to find that amusing in some way, but he couldn't see why. She said nothing and he dismissed it as another Granger peculiarity.

Granger used the bathroom first, leaving him to his third cup of coffee. She came out all pink and slightly damp and wrapped round with towels. Her legs were much nicer than he had previously considered, and he thought it a shame that she couldn't afford a decent set of robes to show off her figure to better advantage.

The experience of seeing her legs almost made up for having to rough it.

His mornings at home generally consisted of being woken gently at mid-morning by a house elf bearing a large, cooked breakfast, and a freshly ironed copy of the Daily Prophet. Once he had perused the scandal sheet, and consumed his rashers of bacon, he would put on his silk dressing gown and patter into the bathroom where his freshly drawn bath, at just the right temperature, would be waiting for him.

Not that he always woke in his own bed by any means. He'd never yet allowed any of the silk-clad sirens lucky enough to be graced with his presence to see the inside of Malfoy Manor, nor had any of them learned the fine art of the fry up, so that he always had to sacrifice the delights of a decent breakfast for other pleasures. One day, he knew, the perfect women would come along and he would be able to experience both pleasures simultaneously or at least reasonably close together - both activities required absolute concentration and he wasn't sure it was wise to combine them – but until then he would simply have to make do.

In the meantime, his failure to experience the perfect breakfast was yet another example of suffering that had toughened him up so that he could face a meal with Granger without breaking down and sobbing at the unfairness of things.

Even when he had to run his own bath.

He had to Scourgify the bath three times to be sure that the muggle contamination had gone; Granger didn't strike him as the domestic type. It didn't really make any difference because he was going to have to use muggle toiletries but it made him feel a little better. He sniffed cautiously at the surprisingly wide collection of bottles on the side of the bath, and settled for one that smelled the least revolting. He'd heard Pansy going on about Chanel No 5, so if it were good enough for her, it was probably good enough for him.

He gathered it was expensive stuff, so he made sure to add a lot of it to the bath.

When he eventually completed his ablutions to his satisfaction, Granger had gone leaving a cheery note: "Off to the library. Back this afternoon. Lunch is in the fridge – help yourself to anything you need, and see you later. HG"

He took her at her word.

By lunchtime he had been through her wardrobe and sneered at her taste, rummaged in her underwear drawer and been amused to find that not all of it was plain, white and dull. She was indeed a bit of a dark horse. This was only confirmed when he found the box under the bed that contained the kind of reading material that had rather more pictures than text, and would be worth a more leisurely perusal later that night – some of the titles were new to him.

He had looked at her bookshelves, found the Dark Arts titles carefully disguised with charms, and made a note of their titles for later blackmailing purposes. There were muggle books, too. He hesitated. He'd always wanted to read one, and see what they were like, but the library at Malfoy Manor did not come equipped with that sort of book and he'd always been too embarrassed to buy one in public.

It was one thing to be associated with the Dark Arts, cruelty and torture, but quite another to be admitting to an interest in Muggles.

Still, there was no one here to see him.

He arranged himself artistically on the sofa, settling the kimono to best advantage, and began to read…

An hour later he was bored. More bored than he had ever thought possible. More bored than Binns had ever made him and that had previously been the gold standard for boredom. And the papers on Hermione's desk were practically begging him to read them.

Project Brainbox was so secret that only four people knew about it, and so complex that lunch with Hermione's assistant had produced nothing more than a stream of gibberish when she'd tried to explain what it was all about.

That was the sort of project he wanted to know about. It was the sort of project he needed to know about, in the same way people wanted to scratch an itch. Not knowing made him uncomfortable and cross.

And it was sitting on the desk on the other side of the room.

It wasn't as if she'd said he couldn't read it; he just wasn't allowed to move the papers. He could look, but not touch, rather like Granger herself.

He drew his wand and cast a charm – there was nothing obvious protecting them. He cast again – nor was there anything unobvious protecting them. One more cast for good luck, testing for Dark Arts, and he was reassured that there weren't any nasty surprises waiting for him.

He moved a little closer and began to read the documents that he could see. He'd expected it to be potions related if Snape was involved, but it seemed to be arithmancy. And then he realised – it was Snape's Dark Arts experience that she was drawing on. She was experimenting with Dark Arithmancy and by the looks of it trying to solve Heinsius' last equation.

Intrigued, he forgot caution, and reached out to turn the page.

There was a crack, and Hermione's voice said, "What have I told you two about touching things you shouldn't? Well, now you're stuck until I decide to let you go. Maybe this way you'll actually pay attention to what I say."

He was trapped: one hand stuck to the table, and it didn't look like he was going anywhere for the next few minutes.

He swore sulphorously. Caught red-handed and by a trap intended for her two side-kicks – could life be any more unfair? None of the counter charms he tried worked, so he accio'd a cushion and a chair, and settled down to read the rest of her notes.  
He may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

It was awkward having to turn the pages with one hand but it was worth it: it was interesting stuff. He had a vague memory nagging at the back of his mind that some of this was covered in Heinsius' Second Treatise but he hadn't read that since he was 17 and trying to work out how the _fuck_ to get to be 18 with all his limbs intact. Some of the extensions of the theory were rather elegant though, and the multiple time solution was impressive though not necessarily very useful.

He was so absorbed, that he didn't hear the key turn in the lock and nearly hit the ceiling when Granger said, "I've managed to pick up your luggage, Draco, and Harry says… What on earth happened to you?"

"I should think that was blindingly obvious." He wasn't going to do something as crass as apologise; this was all her fault for leaving things lying around.

"I thought you'd be a bit more careful." She was suddenly behind him, pressed up against his back, and he was very much aware that there was nothing between her and his skin but a thin layer of silk. "I see you've managed to read most of it."

His mother used to do that to his father, when he was sitting at his big desk in the Library. It was an incredibly intimate thing for Granger to do, and it was making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He wasn't entirely sure he disliked it, but he was entirely sure that he ought to.

Oh god, that was a breast. Granger had her breast on his back. He felt like a seventeen year old again, and the first time he'd ever seen a woman naked: excited, flustered and completely at a loss as to what to do next. It really had been a mistake to wank over her last night, because that had resurrected the bizarre semi-crush that he'd developed in his sixth year that had made him follow her round like a sheep. Admittedly, it had proved useful in the end as an intelligence gathering exercise, but it was bloody embarrassing to realise how obvious he had been at the time. Especially as he seemed to be reverting to that boy now.

"Interested?" she said, and that did nothing for his composure at all.

"It helped to pass the time." He carefully smoothed the page he was reading. "Now, are you going to let me go?"

"Usually I make the boys do some washing up if they get caught like this, but I expect you'd be more trouble that you were worth," she said, her hot breath tickling his ear in a way that wasn't entirely disagreeable.

"That is frequently the case with Malfoys," he replied. "We pride ourselves on it."

"I'm sure." She moved away from him, and the magic binding him to the table trickled away like water, and he could move again.

"Thank you," he said. He stood up, careful to ensure that the dressing gown was firmly wrapped round his person, and turned to face her. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and dress."

"Ok," she replied. "Harry's coming round later to give us an update on your case. I'm not sure he's ready to see you in … all your glory."

"Jealousy is a bitter thing, though entirely understandable in his case," he said, and closed the bedroom door before she could top his parthian shot.

He felt much better once there were several layers of finely tailored cloth between him and the world. He felt even better once his little objets d'art noir were installed in the room – something that Granger definitely didn't need to know about. She was surprisingly stuffy about other people's wrongdoing for someone who didn't have much in the way of a conscience herself.

Lunch was waiting for him on the table in the kitchen, and its consumption allowed any lingering awkwardness between the two of them to pass.

"So," he said, once he had cleared his plate. "Are you going to tell me more about the project? You may as well, since I've seen most of it."

"You mean you really want to know? Usually people can't get away from me fast enough when I start talking about it." She had the same expression on her face that his mother had when she saw a new pair of shoes, or his father when he'd pulled off a particularly nasty coup – all alive and excited.

"I'm not in the habit of making polite conversation. It's one of the perks of being incredibly powerful," he said. "If I ask, it's because I want to know about it."

Granger didn't need asking twice. It was as if a dam had been breached and all the knowledge just had to come bursting out of her in a torrent of information. He wondered how Severus coped with working with her when he wasn't allowed to deduct house points.

"Of course, it would be much easier if we had a copy of the original treatise, but the Ministry won't release the funds for that," she said, finally reaching the point he was interested in.

"Oh dear, that's a shame," he murmured. "It's a very interesting text in its own right; I can understand that you'd want to read it. As I recall there are only three copies outside Malfoy Manor, and it's terribly difficult to get hold of."

Her suspicious glare indicated that she didn't believe in his protestations of sympathy, and that she'd taken the hint that was being offered.

"What's it going to cost me then?" she said. "You didn't just causally drop that into the conversation for no reason."

"You aren't supposed to come out with the question like that," he replied. "There should be more delicate hints, and dancing round the issue before you even think of indicating that you might be interested in some sort of mutually satisfying accommodation."

"So Severus says, but I find I have just as much success with the direct approach, and it does save an awful lot of time."

"But where's the fun in that?" He shook his head in pity at the poor, innocent Gryffindor.

"I've always thought it was about the winning and not the taking part." She shrugged. "I'm surprised you don't agree."

"It's a superficially attractive view, but I prefer to win with style."

"Oooh, do you get extra points for that?" she asked. "No one told me."

"You do," he said. "But I think Gryffindors are disqualified from playing in any event; they just lower the tone."

She still had that same trick of turning pink when she was angry, he was pleased to see. He liked predictable Hermione, he would always be two steps ahead of her in any conflict.

She let out a long, slow breath, more like a sealed cauldron letting off steam than a sigh. "Well, then, we can move straight into the bargaining stages can't we? What do you want?"

"World peace, a fifty per cent increase in profits, and I'd like to go back home," he said, not that he thought it would be that easy, but it was an interesting opening position.

"None of which are going to be forthcoming," she said flatly. "What else?"

He shrugged. It was always fun to play. "Nothing else. You really missed your chance when you had me pinned to the desk," he replied.

"Draco, you're as helpless as a newborn kitten in a Muggle home. All I have to do is wait until you want your next cup of tea, and you'll be begging me to read the damned book."

Which was a good point, he had to admit. "I'll just have to settle for the fifty per cent rise in profits then. When you think of the practical applications…"

"What sort of practical applications," she interrupted. "I don't like the sound of that."

"I'm clean, Granger. I just want to be fabulously rich and make sure I do as little work as possible. Being the next Dark Lord isn't my idea of fun. There's too much hanging round in dirty graveyards in the middle of the night, and you have to keep telling people what to do." He tried his best to look faintly injured, but it felt uncomfortable and wrong. Malfoys did the injuring, that was the natural order of things.

She looked at him warily. "Perhaps. I'll have to see what Severus says."

"If Severus is involved…. I don't see why he didn't ask me for the treatise in the first place. I owe him a life debt, for heaven's sake."

"Perhaps that's why."

Draco didn't like the idea that Hermione might understand Severus better than him. He really didn't like the fact that he couldn't cheat her in some business deal because Severus was her partner, and he owed Severus. And he especially didn't like the fact that his day wasn't going to get any better with the arrival of Potter.

He was beginning to see the attraction of his father's way of doing business – there was nothing like offering to curse someone's family to make them do what you want.

Potter looked knackered when he arrived. Granger thought so too, because she fussed around him like a devoted House Elf offering him tea and the best seat on the sofa and the plumpest cushion.

He watched it all through narrow eyes. Really, Granger ought to have more self-respect than to allow Potter to take advantage of her good nature like that. He didn't even have the decency to thank her, just sat there with half-closed eyes, dozing off.

It was one of life's little ironies that people thought that Slytherins were rude, when they always took care to say please and thank you and not just because forgetting your manners could lead to a nasty hex. Draco didn't believe in taking people for granted. He had few friends, and those he had, he cared for.

He wondered if, in the entire course of their friendship, Potter had ever made Hermione a cup of tea, or bought her flowers, or chocolates, or done anything to acknowledge how good a friend Granger could be.

He cleared his throat and was rewarded with matching glares from the pair of them.

"So?" Draco said. "Any news?"

Potter shook his head. "We haven't even got any suspects. Or rather we have a lot of suspects, but no grounds for interviewing any of them. Your father has annoyed a lot of people in his time, and when you add in the people you've offended, that's practically half the wizarding world."

"Very droll," Draco said.

"I thought so," Potter replied.

"Harry," Hermione said reproachfully.

Harry sat up straighter, looked more serious, and wiped the smile off his face.

Draco was not impressed. As usual, Potter hadn't got a clue, and hadn't achieved anything. He could see himself imprisoned in Granger's flat for years. So could she, and that was all the incentive she needed to come up with a plan.

Draco rather thought that as a baby she would have had a plan. She would have eaten, evacuated and cried according to some pre-determined schedule. Her first words were probably Homework. Usually this would be irritating, but for once he was merely grateful that someone with more than two brain cells to rub together was taking an interest in his case.

"The thing is Harry," she said. "Keeping Draco here is all very well – it does keep him safe – but it doesn't do anything to catch the people behind the threats. I think we should use him as bait."

"Hang on a minute," Draco protested. "I'm not volunteering for that."  
Harry looked wistful for a moment. "I'd love to, but the Ministry would never let me."

" _I'd_ never let you," Draco said firmly. "Which is rather more to the point."

They both ignored him.

"We don't have to really use him as bait," Hermione said. "I was thinking that you could start complaining about how irritating Draco is as a house guest and then, after a week or so, put it about that you've decided to move him somewhere else for his own protection."

"Because I'd have to kill him if I spent a week under the same roof," Harry said. "I can see that."

"Exactly. Then you can start leaking information about where he's been moved to, different information to different people, and then sit back and see which safe house is attacked. That should narrow it down enough to allow you to use Veritaserum on the suspects."

"Or threaten them," Draco added. "I'm prepared to help out with that. I can think of all sorts of things I'd like to do to them."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Harry replied. "Because, much as I'd like to arrest you for being vile and obnoxious, I don't think that we can protect you in the Auror's cells."

"Not to mention the fact that being vile and obnoxious isn't actually an offence," Draco sneered. "Otherwise the Minister would be running the Ministry from Azakaban."

"Finally, there's something we agree on." Harry matched Draco sneer for sneer.

"And on that note, I think we'll call it a day," Hermione said firmly.

Before he left Potter took Granger out into the little hallway for a whispered conversation that was actually clearly audible, certainly once Draco cast the listening charms.

Potter sounded worried. "I don't trust him, Hermione, he's up to something."

"What makes you think that?"

"He was actually being polite to you. You can't pretend that's normal."

Hermione giggled. "Oh that. It's some weird Pureblood etiquette thing that prevents him from being as rude as he'd like to be."

"That's a relief," Potter said. "I thought you were going to tell me that he'd changed, and was now a decent human being, and then I'd have to worry that you'd lost the plot."

"Of course he's changed; we all have. None of us are the same people we were five years ago – I should hope we've all done a little growing up," Hermione replied, sounding faintly exasperated.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean he's changed for the better," Potter said. "I worry about you being here with him on your own."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Hermione snapped. "I'm perfectly capable of handling Malfoy."

Draco grinned. Now he really doubted that was the case, though he'd be interested in trying the experiment.

"Just… be careful," Harry said. "All right?"

Hermione didn't say anything in response and a few seconds later they came back into the room.

"I won't stay for dinner," he said, giving Draco a long hard look that was probably supposed to quell any stirrings of whatever it was that Potter thought he was up to. He took a large handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece, threw it into the fire, and said, "Entrance 13." The fire flashed, he stepped in, and he was gone.

At last.

Now he had some peace and quiet he could get back on with reading his book, and not watch Granger pottering around her flat as she prepared dinner.

Granger's cooking was nowhere near the standards he was used to, though he supposed that it would do for the Weasleys. He didn't say so, just thanked her politely after the meal and went to bed early again.

He was mildly disturbed when his usual night time fantasies of Hermione bent over a desk were superseded by one of her, on top, and riding him like a demon.

It didn't stop him coming though.


	2. Chapter 2

Breakfast was excruciating.

There was Granger prancing around in her pyjamas, all rumpled and inviting and making him bloody grateful he had his second best brocade dressing gown on. He'd never thought that men's pyjamas were sexy before, not compared to the finest silk negligees, but he found that even the thought that they were Weasley's pyjamas didn't stop his cock from taking an interest.

He just hoped that she'd not picked up Legilimency along the way. He really didn't want her intruding into those sorts of thoughts or he'd be nursing a very sore cheek…

He really shouldn't have thought that.

Or that.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked, and he very nearly told her what he'd like to do.

Fortunately, some part of his brain that wasn't preoccupied with sex censored his mouth before he could commit suicide. "Catch up with some reading."

"I've got to see Neville this morning about some herbal supplies, but that won't take long. I thought that, this afternoon, we might try and compile a list of everyone who hates you enough to threaten you. See if we can pick out some targets."

"Neville Longbottom?" Granger and Longbottom had always been close. He had memories of the two of them huddled together over a cauldron in potions - huddled very closely. "And what's he doing these days?"

"He runs a very successful shop in Diagon Alley," she replied.

"Long bottom? Ah yes, Longbottoms' Herbarium – not the most inventive name for a shop – married, two children, and a ten per cent increase in profits year on year since he opened it. Not bad." Draco ignored the faint feeling of relief that came over him on recalling Longbottom's marital status as unworthy of him If he was interested in Granger – which he wouldn't admit short of torture – then a mere Longbottom would be no competition.

"You know a lot about Neville," Hermione said uneasily.

"I know a lot about everyone," he replied.

"That's useful." She bolted down the last of her tea and toast and whisked the breakfast things into the sink, where they began to wash themselves then scurried off into the bathroom.

Granger took a lot longer to ready to see Longbottom than she had the day before. She shouldn't be taking that much care for a married man. When she finally appeared, she was wearing a scruffy set of robes, and had her hair tied loosely back. She looked awful, and his fingers itched to smooth out the creases in her clothes and tuck the stray tendrils of hair behind her ears.

"When I come back this afternoon," she said, "we can run through a list of your enemies and see if we can narrow it down to some likely targets."

"Surprisingly enough, I haven't managed to alienate everyone in the world," he bit out, obscurely angry all at once.

"I know." She paused, and pushed a piece of hair out of her face. "I just don't think that Harry … Harry has this … blind spot. He thinks the world divides neatly into Us and Them – and that obviously someone making death threats is not one of Us."

"Whereas it's much more likely to be an Us," he observed.

"I like it that he still has that innocence..."

"But?"

"But, it means he's likely to overlook the truth. He does do that. He's not one for the big picture, or being detached. He puts his heart and soul into everything, and that's… admirable. It's what makes him who he is, made him into a hero. But sometimes you need to keep a clear head."

"Which is you."

She blushed a little, but made no pretence to false modesty. "Which is me." She collected her cloak, and put it over her arm, then paused with one hand on the door to leave. "He'll never forgive Severus for what he did; I'll never forgive Dumbledore. He threw a boy to the wolves because of that stupid prophecy."

"You've never thought much of prophecy have you? I remember you storming out of Divination." He grinned, remembering her indignation at being called mundane. "Pansy was so jealous of you; she wanted to do it as well, but never got the nerve up. You can't deny the Prophecy came true though; for all of Dumbledore's machinations, Potter did all right."

"I didn't mean Harry – I meant you," she said softly, so he could barely hear her, and then she was gone.

He was so disconcerted by the idea that Granger felt that he'd been sold out by Dumbledore that he took barely an hour to get dressed, which left him with whole hours stretching before him with nothing to do but think.

Dumbledore.

Now there was a man he hated, almost more than Voldemort himself. Voldemort was supposed to be evil, and threaten you and your family. That was part of the deal you knew you were signing up for: you swapped one Dark Mark, eternal loyalty and the risk of death and disgrace for power and wealth and making all the little people do what you wanted.

This was sensible, in its way. The risks were high, too high as it turned out, but the rewards were commensurate with the risk.

What Dumbledore offered was lies, deceit, perpetual servitude, emotional blackmail and a life of guilt in return for what? Peace and goodwill to all men? Nothing more concrete than that - nothing you could put in your Gringott's account. He'd probably cheated at cards; he had certainly liked playing with a stacked deck. There were a hundred things that Dumbledore could have done in that last year of school to protect Severus, _and_ Narcissa, but he'd never lifted a finger, not until that last confrontation when it was all too late, and which he'd known was too late. Had bloody relied on it, in fact.

And he was supposed to be _good_.

If Potter couldn't see what the old bastard had been up to, Granger could. Granger was even sharper than he had realised. It would be entertaining to put her in the same room as Pansy and Zabini and see how they got on, now that school and the Other Business was out of the way.

There were definite possibilities there. _Definite_ possibilities. Granger could give him access to a whole new power structure, one that had been closed to him up till now merely because his father had made the mistake of being on the wrong side of the war.

Best if everyone left their wands at the door for the first meeting though.

And if he was going to make nice with Granger he probably ought to be getting on with his homework. He summoned some paper and a quill from his room, and began to list all the people that held a serious grudge against his father.

Granger didn't come back for lunch, which was bloody irritating. He couldn't work out how the muggle things worked, and didn't dare try in case something came off in his hand, or his hand came off in something – you didn't know what booby traps she'd set to keep the Weasley's out of her cupboards – so he had to make his own meal.

Not that it actually involved getting his hands dirty – he was a wizard after all- but still it made him feel vaguely dirty and not in a pleasurable way that involved three witches, a gallon of chocolate and a stick of celery. It was just like being on the run again. He'd learned a lot of housewifery spells that year; Severus was a born bachelor, so it was that or starve.

At least there was no one here to see him. He'd have to get Granger to take an Unbreakable Vow not to tell Potter about it either.

By the time she finally came back to the flat, he had a list of enemies as long as one of Granger's potion's essays, and the hump the size of dyspeptic camel that had stubbed its toe.

"Where've you been?" he snapped as soon as she was through the door.

"Missed me, did you?" she said. "I'm touched."

"I was bored, so yeah, I did," he grumbled, which was as much of an apology as he was prepared to offer.

"Did you just…? Never mind." She seemed to take an awful lot of time to take off her cloak and hang it up. "There," she said briskly. "I'm all yours… er…I mean, would you like some tea?"

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse," he said, following her into the kitchen where she put the kettle on to boil. .

"I should think," she said dryly, "that you're not the sort of person who turns down any sort of offer at all."

He laughed; which surprised them both. "You'd be surprised. I always turn down Zabini's offer of a second bottle of Firewhiskey, I've never taken anything that the Weasley twins have offered me, and I make it a distinct point never to go anywhere at wandpoint. If you've heard otherwise, well, let's just say that the public overestimate how complaisant I am."

"No doubt. I had heard you were a very giving person." She put three spoons of tea into the earthenware teapot and then added hot water, before placing it on the table, and adding two cups (with proper saucers this time, he was pleased to see). "Now, why don't we sit down, and I'll tell you all about the gossip I picked up today."

Granger had an eye for detail and one hell of a memory. In the course of a day spent chatting with Longbottom and all his friends in Diagon Alley she had managed to find out incredible amounts of information about who was doing what in the Wizarding World.

"No one is very keen in Lucius getting out of prison," she said. "But there was no one I talked to who was prepared to do anything but complain about it. They've got better things to do with their time. He isn't that important to them."

"People don't usually admit to a criminal conspiracy just because someone has a bit of a chat with them," Draco replied. "I'm not sure you could really tell what they were thinking."

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. "No, but the hostility between us is well-known. If someone had a grudge, they'd be more likely to talk to me than say Harry or Ron, maybe see if I could be recruited to the Terminate Malfoy Now campaign."

"It may not even be someone I've upset anyway. It's much more likely to be someone who hates my father, or I'd have been getting these threats a lot earlier." Draco drew out his list, and laid it on the table. "These are the most likely people I can think of."

"I see you've rated them according to level of hatred, ability to plot, and financial resources. That's useful," she said absently, running a finger along the list. "I don't think it's him; he's been on holiday for the last two weeks."

"Which is the perfect alibi, though."

"True."

Granger pulled a pad of paper towards her – she had them littered throughout the flat, so she would never have to go more than three feet to find something to write on - and started making notes. Between the pair of them, they knew most of the Wizarding World, where they were and what they were doing. He was beginning to get the feeling that she was rather more than some quiet researcher working on the occasional technical project for the Ministry.

The list wasn't really getting shorter though, just more detailed. "We really need Zabini," said Draco. "He's very good at asking people awkward questions. I'm sure Potter and Weasley are doing their best, but they do work for the Ministry."

"I do hope that you're not suggesting that you'd like Zabini to go and ask suspects questions at wand point."

"I'm suggesting that he might be better placed to ask questions of people's neighbours, especially if accompanied by some of the Malfoy fortune."

"All right then. I'll see what I can arrange." She stretched, easing the kinks out of her back with the practiced ease of someone who spent their lives crouched over books, but he wasn't buying that particular façade any more. "Oh shit, look at the time. No wonder I'm starving."

Granger cooked the Muggle way, always. He'd never seen her use magic to make tea or coffee, or breakfast, even though all that involved was tipping the contents of a box into a bowl and adding milk. He couldn't understand why someone would deliberately choose to do things the hard way, especially when her cooking wasn't that good. Granger was a perfectionist: why not wave a wand and have done? It was… odd.

"Is there any wine?" he asked.

There was, and it was three steps above vinegar, but it was alcoholic. And the thing about bad wine was that after half a bottle it began to taste a lot better. After a bottle, you could almost pretend that it was half way decent, even if the meal wasn't.

Granger managed to keep pace with him, which was impressive, though she got a bit squiffy because only squiffiness could excuse her saying, "You know, this is just like being married, sitting down together after a hard day's plotting, having a meal together with a nice glass of wine."

"No, it's not," he said. "For one thing, this isn't a nice glass of wine, and for another we should be sitting at a proper table, big enough to seat sixteen, with an epergne and floral arrangements."

Granger was probably the only person he knew who would know what an epergne was without looking it up in a dictionary. Not because she had an epergne, but because she would have researched the topic of Pureblood dining habits in case anyone ever asked her what an epergne was. He was firmly convinced that she knew everything; she probably took the dictionary to bed with her at night which was a waste and he wondered whether it was possible to Polyjuice yourself into a book so you could get into bed with her.

"What, and your mum and dad sit at opposite ends and try and talk round the epergne, or do they have the House Elves running backwards and forwards with little messages: please pass the salt?" She giggled, and topped up their glasses.

"Don't be daft; that's what Accio's for."

For a heartbeat she believed him, before giggling again. "I would have thought it was terribly bad manners to use magic at the dinner table." She held her little finger out in the universally recognised gesture for excessive snobishness.

"That only applies to hexing people. Accio is fine."

"Ah." She nodded wisely. "Someone should think about writing a book on etiquette to deal with these little issues."

"Someone already has; it's in my library. How do you think I acquired my polished manners and exquisite sense of good taste?"

"You read it after you left school then?" she said, then looked mortified.

It was vintage Granger, both feet in her mouth at once, and frighteningly accurate with it, which only made it worse. "I was," he said slowly, "a horrible child, and a moderately awful teenager. I grew up. I haven't called anyone Mudblood in years, and I think we can safely say that any ideas I might once have had about Pureblood superiority have been thoroughly knocked out of me by events."

"I expect we were fairly horrid too," she said, paying a great deal of attention to her fingers tracing a circle on the table.

"Potter still is."

She looked up, mouth open, ready to disagree, and then changed her mind. "Perhaps he is to you, but then you need someone to remind you that not everyone is going to give in to the Malfoy charm."

"I thought that was your job, Granger."

"I don't think you've ever been charming to me," she replied, sounding almost wistful.

"Of course not; you'd see through it in an instant. That's the problem with the bright girls – they reduce you to sincerity and the direct approach, and my name isn't Longbottom." He shuddered dramatically. "It's definitely not the Malfoy way to resort to honesty, unless there isn't any other way and you kill all the witnesses."

"Longbottom … Neville hasn't done that badly with sincerity; you should give it a try sometime. Have you seen his wife? Harry and Ron can't stop drooling over her." Granger made a hand gesture that encompassed the salient features of Mrs Longbottom that she had obviously picked up from Potter and Weasley.

"How on earth has he managed to pull that off?"

"Well, I probably shouldn't say this…I've heard that he's very well endowed."

"Nonsense Granger, no one is as well-endowed as me."

Hermione goggled at him.

"Why the surprise? It can't have escaped your notice that I'm probably the richest man in the Wizarding World?"

"Money?" she gasped. "You thought we were talking about money?"

"Oh," he said. "That. I expect he needs all the help he can get, though you should know by now that it's not the size of the wand but the skill of the wizard that matters." Draco shrugged. "And a really skilled wizard should be able to work magic without his wand anyway."

Hermione went pink and kept her eyes very firmly fixed on the table. Too firmly. It was clear what she was thinking about.

Good.

It was about time someone else had wholly inappropriate visions of sex running through their mind.

That night, he was even more perturbed when, instead of some rather interesting recollections of a weekend spent in Paris with three delightful young ladies, his slow, thorough wank was conducted to imagining Granger fantasising about his wandless magic.

He was becoming obsessed.

More obsessed.

He woke late, with a head full of cotton, and a foul taste in his mouth.

He stumbled into the bathroom and rendered himself at least presentable, if not up to his usual perfection. One advantage of having a brain that was fumbling with concepts like 'door' and 'handle' was that his worry about obsessing over Granger was buried somewhere deep in his mind and was currently having the morning off.

In fact, his brain was so fucked, he couldn't be bothered thinking about sex. It was too busy thinking about the need for coffee and bacon, and hangover potion to even care about Granger's nice legs.

Mostly thinking about coffee and bacon, anyway.

He slumped at the kitchen table, and a cup of coffee appeared before him. A few neurons, more resistant than the rest, fizzed into life and directed his hand to lift the cup to his mouth.

He drained it in one gulp, and it burned a path down his throat and up his nose and into his head and kicked the whole delicately balanced Malfoy calculating machine back into life.

A blue bottle was placed by him – hangover relief, which he also downed in one – and then a second cup of coffee, which he sipped more slowly.

"I don't suppose you fancy a fry up?" a voice asked, and he nodded gingerly.

By the time his breakfast was ready, the hangover potion had kicked in, and he was able to dip his toast soldiers into the runny eggs with complete equanimity. Granger might not be much of a cook, but she could do a bloody good breakfast.

He paused, struck by a horrid thought, in the middle of transferring his toast to his mouth. His soldier sagged, dripping egg on the plate.

Oh fuck.

Granger could cook breakfast. She'd sneaked this talent up on him at a time when he was vulnerable – which was perfectly sensible and admirable – and forced him into eating bacon. She was now officially his perfect woman.

It didn't stop him having seconds though: a condemned man always had a hearty breakfast.

He took his third cup of coffee and laid on the sofa, several large cushions propping him up so that he could drink without choking, another one tucked under his feet and contemplated the meaning of life with particular emphasis on the delights of bacon. At least the Hermione problem took his mind off the death threats.

Granger flopped down in one of the arm chairs opposite. "We're going to have a visitor in a bit."

Draco made a noise to show he was listening, and then there was blessed silence.

Their visitor arrived without warning on the dot of 11 am. One moment the flat was filled with a lazy contentment that could pass for domestic, the next it was filled with the sound of an angry wizard swearing volubly and fluently in three different languages.

"Zabini," Draco said, not bothering to open his eyes. "How good of you to join us."

"What do you think you're playing at?" Zabini asked when he had finally run out of swear words and had begun repeating himself.

Draco cracked open an eye. "I don't know what you mean, and I want that to be understood as really not knowing what you mean, and not some feeble attempt to score points by pretending innocence."

Hermione coughed. "Erm, I think that Zabini is a bit upset at the way that we got him here."

"What's wrong with a portkey?" Draco asked.

"Nothing, I expect. It's just that, to keep this meeting secret we had to resort to a little subterfuge." Hermione rose to her feet, looking a little guilty. " _Technically_ , Zabini is not in this flat, but is currently helping the Aurors with their enquiries."

"There was nothing _technical_ about the way I was arrested," Zabini protested. "Two big blokes, they were. And they wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I've met them; they are very persuasive aren't they?" Draco swung his legs off the sofa, and sat up. "Good to see you anyway."

Zabini sniffed. "Is that coffee I smell? And bacon? I didn't have time to have breakfast this morning you know."

Hermione sighed, and stood up. "It's as bad as having Ron around, trying to keep you lot fed."

"There's no need to be insulting," Zabini said. "Not when you're after a favour."

" _I'm_ not," Hermione said simply "So if I make you breakfast, _you'll_ owe _me_."

"Heartless woman," Zabini muttered under his breath.

"Mmm," Draco agreed, admiring Granger's arse as she went into the kitchen. Zabini also noticed Granger's arse, which earned him a pointed glare. Zabini just smirked; he'd always been a smug bastard.

It didn't take long to bring Zabini up to speed with events. He'd known about the death threats, but had thought Draco was in Paris with his mother. "I was going to Owl you anyway," he said. "There have been one or two odd things happening. People I don't know coming round and asking questions about you and where you are."

"I don't suppose you recognised them?" Draco asked.

Zabini shook his head. "They didn't look familiar, and I had to wonder whether they were using Polyjuice. No one would be stupid enough to use their own face when they were reconnoitring, would they?"

"They might be Hufflepuffs."

"Ah yes, Hufflepuffs; life's natural punters. Where would we be without them?"

"Bored, and without kickable minions," Draco replied, and they both smirked.

Granger came back with a bacon sandwich on a plate perched precariously on top of a cup in one hand, and a pot of coffee in the other. Zabini took the plate and cup from her, and she pushed a little table in front of the sofa to put the pot on. "I'm going to have a bath now," she said. "And I'm going to listen to some very loud Muggle music. I'm sure it's not the sort of thing that you would want to hear, so I'm going to put some silencing charms up."

"I'll be sure to tell you what you need to know about our plans," Draco said.

"Absolutely," Zabini agreed.

Once she was safely in the bathroom, Draco cast a privacy charm of his own, just in case. She was a sneaky girl.

"So, any idea who's behind this?" Zabini asked.

"None at all." Draco summoned the list of suspects with a lazy flick of the wand, and handed it to Blaise. "Anyone jump out at you?"

Zabini read the list whilst he ate his sandwich. When his attention was grabbed by a particular name, he poked at it with his forefinger and left a smear of grease behind. "Mmmm," he said, licking the last of the bacon fat off his fingers. "That was delicious." He filled his cup with coffee and gazed into the middle distance, assessing the information. "I don't think it's any of this lot, frankly. The big fish on that list wouldn't eff about with threats, and the little fish wouldn't have the bollocks."

"But you'll have a poke round anyway," Draco said, and it wasn't a question.

"Of course."

"I'll pay any expenses."

Zabini gave a half-suppressed belch, and patted his stomach affectionately. "I'll let you know what I find out. Preferably without being arrested next time."

"I don't see why you're complaining; you can always say that you'd been a very bad boy, but they had to let you go because they couldn't get anything to stick. It'll do your reputation no end of good."

"True." Zabini poured another cup of coffee. "So you and Granger then?" he asked. "Not that it's a surprise. You've always had a thing for bossy women."

"I have not."

"Come off it, you followed her round like a lost sheep during sixth year. You were nothing if not obvious."

"I was spying on her."

"I know." Blaise nudged him in the ribs.

"There is no me and Granger," Draco repeated, ignoring the familiarity to concentrate on the issue at hand.

"Ah, she's playing hard to get. Sensible girl."

"I'm not chasing after her either," Draco replied.

"But you'd like to."

Draco shrugged.

He wanted to shag Granger – that wasn't an issue. His father took the view that Malfoys could do what they like with whom they liked as often as they liked. (Obviously this had all stopped when Lucius got married, because his mother wasn't the sort to put up with a husband who strayed and his dad liked his testicles where they were as much as the next bloke.) No, the difficulty lay in wanting to talk to her afterwards.

It was the only the fact that his father was still alive that stopped him from turning in his grave.

"Ah," Zabini said. It was an 'Ah' that conveyed a world of fellow feeling and sympathy. "You could try charming her," he offered.

"I've rather shot myself in the foot over that one." To try that tactic now, when he'd said only stupid people fell for it would be nothing short of disastrous.

"Ok, then. Ask her out for dinner, get her a bit squiffy and then try the direct approach. She may not say yes, but at least she won't be in any condition to hex your nadgers off."

"It's not very subtle."

"She hangs round with Potter and Weasley, by their standards that's not just subtle; it's sophisticated. If you haven't spent the evening talking about Quidditch, picked a fight with the barman, and then spent half an hour with your head on her shoulder telling her she's your beshtest friend, well, that's romantic."

"I suppose it's worth a try."

"It is that. You've been mooning around over her off and on since sixth year. Get it out of your system once and for all, one way or another. And if it goes horribly wrong, I promise to bring you some grapes in St Mungo's." He nudged Draco in the ribs again.

A loud clattering from the bathroom indicated that Hermione had finished her bath, and would soon be joining them. Draco cancelled the privacy charm, and Zabini coolly started running through the latest gossip about their schoolmates.

He was in the middle of a particularly racy story concerning the seeker of the Chudley Cannons and a goat, when Hermione joined them. "So, have you finished plotting?"

"Pretty much, though Zabini agrees with me that it's not likely to be anyone on the list," Draco said.

"One of Us, then," she said. "Damn."

"If you mean an Order member… I don't think that's likely either." Zabini waved a hand in dismissal of the idea. "If the death threats are connected to the idiots who've been asking questions….they were amateurs. Your lot … well, by the end, there wasn't one of them you'd want to meet down a dark alley; even Longbottom was getting a bit tasty. I could take this lot on with one hand tied behind my back. If you want my opinion - and you're going to get it whether you want it or not - it's someone too young to have been involved. Someone who wishes they had been, and who thinks it's all exciting and brave and noble to go round writing wrongs."

"A pillock then," she said, faintly bitter.

"Which doesn't narrow it down much, does it?" Draco said. "Because that description applies to most of the Wizarding World."

Hermione smiled faintly, and didn't disagree with him. "Then we'll have to hope that Harry manages to flush someone out with all the hints that he's dropping, because that's looking like our best chances of catching someone."

"Wonderful," Draco said flatly. "I can't tell you how happy it makes me to have to rely on him."

"Almost as happy as it makes him, I bet," Zabini put in, which did make Draco feel more cheerful about the situation.

Zabini stayed for lunch, which was spent maligning the Minister of Magic and seeing who could come up with the most scurrilous gossip about him. Zabini won, because he had no compunction about lying.

He took the Floo back to the Ministry, promising to pass on anything useful he found out, and inviting himself round for dinner as soon as it was safe to visit and then the flat returned to the calm of the morning. Draco spread himself out on the sofa with several good books, and a couple of very bad ones, and Hermione sat at her desk working on her mysterious project.

He watched her working, watched the way she played with her hair as she wrote, the way she would stop every fifteen minutes and rub at her neck, and the way that she would stand up and pace backwards and forwards when she was reading something particularly interesting.

Zabini's advice was good, as far as it went, but he wasn't prepared to take the chance of having an invitation to dinner turned down. What he wanted was some sort of bait, something that she wouldn't be able to resist?

"I've been thinking," he said.

"Mmmm." She didn't look up from her papers.

"That if the Hensius' treatise is so important to your work, that I really ought to let you have a look at it. It's the least I can do for someone who has been so helpful. I couldn't agree to it leaving the Manor though – you would have to read it there."

She nodded, smiling broadly. "That would be wonderful."

"Of course, it will be my responsibility as a good host to make sure you're fed properly. Lunch, perhaps?"

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, you know the meal we eat at mid-day. Or, perhaps you'd like to have dinner instead? You could see the famous Malfoy epergne."

Granger wasn't stupid. He could see her thinking through all the angles, and coming up with an answer that went 'Books' and getting distracted from the real issue of what he was up to. You didn't need to get Granger drunk to get her to drop her guard; all you needed to do was mention Libraries.

She agreed, of course. She'd have taken tea with Voldemort if he'd had a rare manuscript.

Over the course of the next week he began his understated campaign to win the heart, mind and body of Hermione.

He made her a cup of tea from time to time to show how kind and caring he was. He didn't sneer at Potter when he came round to report on how ineffectual he had been to show how much he'd matured. He said please and thank you to demonstrate that he had manners and didn't take her for granted. He sat next to her on the sofa and watched television with her, to show that he wasn't bigoted.

Hermione had been right – they were living the life of a married couple in all but name.

And sex.

There was no sex. The nearest he got to sex was her falling asleep on his shoulder one evening and dribbling on his third best robes. It was a measure of how badly he'd got it that he not only allowed the liberty, but put his arm round her and revelled in the fact that she'd muttered sleepily something about him smelling nice. She didn't hex him when she finally woke up; that was a good sign. She was definitely mellowing towards him.

Operation Seduce Hermione was brought to a clattering halt by the news that Potter and Weasley brought them early one evening. Zabini was in St Mungo's nursing a stunning headache. Someone had hexed him from behind, and then asked him some questions punctuated by a boot to the ribs.

"He's going to be all right," Potter said. "But he's not very happy with life. The nurses are complaining about the bad language he's using, and they don't even understand half of it."

Draco demonstrated that his command of demotic English was almost the equal of Zabini's, though he didn't venture into foreign languages.

"Absolutely," said Hermione. "I couldn't agree more."

"He told me to tell you that he'd blabbed all he knew, which wasn't a lot, but that they had already known Hermione was involved." Weasley sounded disapproving of Zabini's tactics. No doubt he would have remained silent in the face of excruciating torment to protect his friends.

Draco thought Zabini had done the right thing, because he wanted his opponents to come looking for him.

Draco had reached that state of fury that couldn't be dealt with by swearing and was well past the stage when smashing things up would help and had jumped straight for the urge to kill. He'd really had enough of this namby-pamby pissing around, and was going to bring down the bloody Ministry if someone was stupid enough to get in his way.

This had just got personal.

"Right," he said crisply. "I am returning to my familial home, and Granger will be accompanying me. You will pass this news round the Ministry – take out a full page advertisement in the Daily Prophet if you have to – and I shall deliver the body parts of these _fuckwits_ to the Ministry tomorrow morning. There will be no arguments about this."

"You can do what you like," Potter snarled. "But you don't get to put Hermione's life in danger just because you're feeling your oats."

"Don't be a fool…" Draco began.

"I'll make my own decisions, thank you, Harry," Hermione said crisply. "And I'm going. However, I think I'd feel a lot safer if there were Aurors watching the place."

"And you think it's a bloody coincidence that Zabini was being asked about you do you?" Draco was beginning to wonder whether Granger's brains were leaking out of her ears – this could be a good sign if this meant she was preoccupied by other matters, such as sex but really could be delayed until a more appropriate time, like tomorrow – because that was a truly stupid suggestion.

"Of course not," she replied, glaring at him. "Someone obviously looked at the Floo logs, and worked out where he'd been. Which means it was someone connected to the Aurors – sorry Harry – someone who could be in a position to volunteer for guard duty. It could save a lot of time if we send them an invitation to the party instead of waiting for them to get the courage up on their own."

So it wasn't a stupid suggestion. He was peeved he hadn't thought of it himself, and slightly concerned that if her brain was still functioning she wasn't attracted to him at all.

Potter looked like he'd swallowed a Bertie Bott's sick flavoured bean, which usually would have provided Draco with immense satisfaction, but he didn't have time to enjoy it. He had things to do, places to be, and people to torment.

Granger was packed before him, which gave Potter and Weasley another opportunity to persuade her not to get involved. She was having none of it.

"I'm going," she said flatly. "You got me involved. You brought him here, you asked me to look after him, and that's what I'm going to do."

Which was touching, even if she was demented to think he needed looking after.

"Leave it, Harry," said Ron. "It's Crookshanks all over again."

"Crookshanks?" Draco asked, making them all jump.

"My cat," Hermione replied, glaring at Ron. "And I don't see what that's go to do with Malfoy."

"Crookshanks was an evil, horrible, demon of a cat that bit anyone that went near it, but Hermione loved it and that was it. She wouldn't hear a word against it." Ron shrugged. "She's like that. Daft."

"At least he's not Scabbers," Hermione snapped, having gone lobster red at the word love.

"Yeah, well. I have to give you that," Harry said. "I s'pose it could be worse."

"How?" Ron demanded.

"It could be Voldemort."

Draco couldn't quite hear what Ron muttered, but he was fairly sure that he'd been compared unfavourably to Voldemort.

"We'll have to take the Floo to the Ministry," Hermione said, picking up her bag. "It's a one way connection, and that's the only place it links to. I'll go last. I'd like to set up a welcome for anyone who comes visiting."

"Then you'll take the Auror's Floo to the Manor – I take it you can Floo in still," Potter asked.

" _I_ can," Draco replied. "I need to reset the wards to let Granger through."

"I bet," Weasley mumbled. "I bet you've got anti-mudblood charms all over the place."

"I think you'll find," Draco said, in arctic tones, "that well-mannered people don't use that term. And the wards are designed to keep out anyone who isn't family – we never distinguished between blood when it came to keeping out unwelcome visitors – for the duration of her stay, Granger will be an honorary Malfoy. Won't that be nice?"

He didn't mention that Granger was going to be the first Muggleborn to cross the threshold of his home, if you didn't count the ones that were buried under the foundations in the twelfth century.

Weasley looked horrified. He flicked a glance at Hermione and then back to Draco, and came up with an answer he obviously didn't like, but didn't have time to pursue the matter because they were all being chivvied into the fireplace and whisked off to the Ministry with Hermione bringing up the rear.

The trek through the Ministry was conducted in complete secrecy. Harry and Ron would go ahead and clear corridors of people so that Hermione and Draco could pass unseen. It wasn't quite taking out an advert in the Daily Prophet, but it was close – people may have been barricaded into their rooms, but there was nothing to stop them from casting charms to see through the walls, and every encouragement to do so.

Within ten minutes, the whole Ministry knew who they were and where they were going, and just in case they missed the point would spend the next couple of hours walking round the place talking about Malfoy Manor at the top of their voice.

It wasn't subtle but it was going to work.

Draco didn't quite kiss the marbled floors of Malfoy Manor when he arrived home, but it was a close thing. He released the protective wards with a practised flick of his wand, and gave a flurry of orders to his Elves.

The Floo in the Library was the one that the family used, so it felt a little peculiar to make the connection to the Ministry to allow Hermione through. The Malfoys distrusted the Ministry even more than they distrusted Mudbloods, and that was an awful lot.

"I think that went well," she said, brushing entirely imaginary dirt from her robes. "Harry says he's got five volunteers for guard duty, so he's accepted them all."

"And who's keeping an eye on them?"

"He picked ten of his best Aurors, took them into a room and made them take Veritaserum. He says to tell you that there are things he knows about his colleagues that he wishes he'd never found out, but none of them want to kill you. Not that they wouldn't be ecstatic if you didn't fall down a hole somewhere, but they don't want to help the process along. He says that's the best he can hope for."

"It's a wonderful thing to be loved by everyone."

Hermione tried to look sympathetic. "If it's any consolation, they hate the Minister more. And they aren't that fond of Harry either, which has come as a bit of a shock to him, but then he had just slipped them Veritaserum. It tends to sour the boss-employee relationship, I suppose."

"Not as much as crucio," Draco said a little bitterly.

"Probably not," Hermione replied, with an utterly heartless disregard of his suffering in the past.

A House Elf appeared by Draco's side. "Take Gra… Miss Granger's luggage upstairs to the Blue Room."

"I can do that myself," she said, picking up her case. "I'm quite capable."

"I'm sure you are Granger, but I thought you'd rather have a cup of tea, a biscuit or three, and a quick look at the Library catalogue."

Granger reluctantly let go of her luggage, more on the basis that she thought it was silly to get into a tug of war with the Elf, than because she was conceding the point. If she thought House Elf rights were more important than books, she was very keen on them indeed.

Another Elf appeared with the tea, which was placed on the long table in the middle of the room. Draco, determined to score more points while he had the chance, thanked it politely. The effect was utterly undermined by the way the Elf goggled at him on hearing the words, but Granger was already casting greedy eyes over the books and missed it.

"Tea?" he offered, and had to repeat himself twice before she answered.

"It's an impressive collection," she said, accepting her cup of tea.

"You don't have to read it all in one night," he replied.

Granger loved books, he … was fond of Granger… it had all the hallmarks of a love triangle in the making.

The Malfoys had never been casual hosts who allowed people to drop round on spec, and after a couple of hours waiting for their visitors to show up he could see no reason to change the practice. It was a shame you couldn't send them an embossed invitation – "You are cordially invited to spend a night screaming agony in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. Black tie. RSVP." – thought they probably wouldn't know what RSVP meant, and would probably turn up clutching a bottle of vinegar masquerading as wine and asking if you minded them bringing a mate.

Some people had no style.

Even Granger seemed twitchy, and couldn't concentrate on the delights of the obscure latin text on the origins of Cruciatus which she'd unearthed.

Though that might have a lot to do with the way he was reading it over her shoulder.  
It was entirely possible that she was simply finding his presence irritating, but she'd never been backwards at communicating her feelings, so…

"I think," he said, leaning forward the better to point out the paragraph in question, "that this is particularly interesting, don't you agree?"

There was a faint squeak, and he didn't think it was in protest, and she turned towards him…

Which was precisely the moment that their guests decided to arrive.

The fire flared, and Draco turned and drew his wand in a practiced movement. Granger was a second behind him, slowed down by the chair. The first man through the Floo fired off a hex, and they ducked out of the way, giving reinforcements time to get through and arrange themselves in a semi-circle round the pair of them.

"Good heavens," Draco sneered. "There's only seven of them. I find that a little insulting."

Granger snorted; it was always nice to have your little witticisms appreciated.

"We'll let the girl go," said one man. "If you come quietly; we've got no quarrel with her."

"I've certainly got one with you," she replied. "Girl, indeed! I was fighting Dark Lords when you were still squeezing your spots."

"Be fair," Draco said. "He still is squeezing his spots. None of them look old enough to use shaving charms. Well, come on then, what are you waiting for? This isn't Quidditch children; no one blows a starting whistle." No one made a move. "All right then, on the count of three?"

Neither Granger nor he waited beyond one, and took out two of their attackers in the first strike, before dropping low out of the way of the return hexes. Granger lurched to the left, and flicked a slicing hex across the room bringing up a line of red across one man's robes.

"You bitch," he said, and his friends' looked at him in horror as he slumped to the ground. Draco took advantage of their preoccupation to stupefy another one, but missed his next target who then launched an assault on Granger, forcing her to cast Protego.

Granger's attacker pressed home his attack with a series of stinging hexes that pushed her back against the wall. Draco Stupefied him, but the remaining two took the opportunity to charge at him. He barely had a chance to get off a couple of minor hexes before they closed with him and their momentum dragged him to the floor. He managed to kick one in the balls, which sent him staggering back into a curse from Granger.

The remaining attacker grasped him firmly by the throat and started trying to wring his neck whilst banging his head on the floor. "For fuck's sake hex him," he croaked.

"I can't, I might hit you," Granger shouted. "Oh fuck it!"

And then the man was flying off to one side as Granger cracked him over the side of the head with the large volume they had been reading earlier. She used so much force the book shattered and shed pages all over the floor.

The man that Granger had sliced open lurched to his feet, and realising that he was outnumbered two to one, decided that he didn't fancy those odds.

He made a determined sprint for the Floo and squealed with fury as he realised that it was blocked against him. "Bloody amateurs," Draco sneered, and used a particularly nasty curse to slam him into the wall before finally stupefying him.

"Well that was fun," Granger said.

"And where was Potter?" Draco snarled, and then kicked one of the bodies on the floor.

Hermione shrugged, and cast a binding charm on the man nearest her. "I expect he was held up by something."

"Well I hope it was bloody important!" Adrenalin was fizzing round his system, and there was no one he could take it out on. He couldn't shout at Hermione, he couldn't kick a house elf, and he probably wasn't allowed to slice pieces off their prisoners, but what he could legitimately do is shout at Potter.

Potter, when he eventually appeared, was full of apologies and nursing a black eye. "We missed one," he said. "Some idiot decided to swap shifts at the last minute, and it turns out that his mate wasn't doing it out of the goodness of his own heart."

"You bleeding idiot." Draco was seething, and was ready to boil over.

"You can shout at Harry tomorrow," Granger said firmly. "I want to check that you're all right."

"I want to shout at Harry now," he said, aware that he sounded less commanding than he would have liked.

"Harry's busy picking up the prisoners, so he doesn't have time to be shouted at properly. He'll have much more time to be shouted at tomorrow," she replied. "You'll see yourself out, won't you Harry?"

Potter nodded.

That almost made sense, he thought. If he shouted at Potter tomorrow, he would have longer to think of really cutting things to say.

"Now show me where my bag is," she continued. "I've got some healing potions in there, and it looks like there's a nasty bump on the back of your head that needs looking at."

He must be in shock, he thought, because he somehow he found himself dutifully showing her the way upstairs to her room. He recognised the potions' bottles she brought out of her bag as being of Severus' brewing, so they were guaranteed to bring you back from the brink of death. Not that he was on the brink of death, but his head was beginning to hurt a bit. And by bit, he meant that he felt like a herd of cattle had trampled on him, and stayed on to dance the mazurka on the inside of his skull.

She made him sit down on the chair in the bathroom, and gathered some towels together. He protested when she put a cold flannel on the back of his neck, but it did ease the throbbing a little.

"Don't be such a baby," she said. Any complaint he was about to make – which would have been long and detailed and dwelled lovingly on her failings as a sympathetic handmaiden – was stifled when she made him lean forward so she could look at the back of his head, and his nose came into very close contact with her chest.

She was warm and pleasantly scented – Chanel was much nicer on her than him – and soft and rounded, and he could quite happily stay there for an hour or so.

Granger ran her fingers through his hair, gently checking for injuries, and he promptly added that to his list of fantasies.

"You really ought to take more care of yourself," she said, her fingers continuing down the back of his neck. "Those two brutes could really have hurt you. You should have been paying more attention."

"I was trying to make sure you were all right," he protested. "Besides, it's your fault he got that last punch in. You should have hexed him."

She stepped back from him, and offered him a potion bottle which he drained in two gulps. Medicinal potions always tasted foul, but he swore that Severus added something extra to make them even worse. "I could have caught you by mistake, and then you would have been in real trouble. I did what I could."

"You hit him with a priceless book," Draco said.

"It's just the first thing that came to hand. I'll pay for any damages."

"You can't afford to." Draco was still having difficulty coming to terms with Granger damaging a book like that.

"Well, I'm sorry but I thought it was more important to save our lives," she began hotly.

He pulled her roughly to him in a way that would ordinarily have got his face slapped, and kissed her. "Don't be sorry," he said against her lips. "Silly girl. I couldn't give a damn. You do realise this means you like me more than books."

She pulled away from him, and stood up, busying herself with putting the lid back on the potions bottle. "I am _not_ going to sleep with you," she said, "just because you have an itch that needs scratching."

"Jesus wept," he said. "If it was just an itch that needed scratching, I've got my hand and a rich imagination to deal with it."

Hermione blinked at him. "You're serious?"

"Of course I'm bloody serious. I've made you cups of tea, I've let you dribble on my shoulder, I've even been civil to Potter, and we know how much that had to hurt. I've even been forced into being honest! What more do I need to do? You really are the most aggravating woman I've ever met."

"You're moderately cute when you aren't whinging, Draco," she said finally. "The thing is, you whinge an awful lot."

"I could change," he offered, trying not to sound as if he was whining. "A bit, anyway. I could be nicer to you, at least."

"There would have to be ground rules," she said.

His brain stuttered to a halt, but suspicion was hardwired into his brain so whilst his libido was running round inside his head and cheering, the hindbrain took over. "Such as?"

"If this is just a ploy to get me into bed, I will hex you into the middle of next week."

"Agreed." His libido had stopped cheering, and was now considering which of his fantasies he wanted to start with.

"If you cheat on me, I will hex your bollocks off."

"Fair enough. The same goes in reverse by the way. Not that you've got bollocks, but you know what I mean."

She nodded. "I will not be dumped by Owl, neither will I tolerate being told that it's obviously that time of the month when I am in the middle of arguing with you."

"I wouldn't dream of being so vulgar." He'd made that mistake with Pansy once, and it wasn't one he'd ever make again. "Is that it?"

"There's one other thing." She took a deep breath. "I expect to be introduced your parents. And I expect to get out alive and unhexed."

Ah. Commitment. Commitment with a capital C.

Even _his_ libido had to think about that for a bit.

You had to admire a woman who knew what she wanted, and what she was worth, and wasn't prepared to compromise. Still, it wasn't likely to go well, even though he was a very spoiled child whose parents had never denied him anything he really wanted and probably wouldn't start now.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But with one proviso – you don't mention the House Elf thing. It's only fair," he said, before she could interrupt. "Dad doesn't get to mention his theories on purity of blood and the way the Wizarding World is going to the dogs; you don't get to mention House Elf freedom."

She sighed. "Agreed; as long as he doesn't start kicking them in front of me."

"I think we can all live with that. Now," he said, moving closer to her. "I have one or two conditions of my own."

"Hmm?"

Her eyelids fluttered close as he pressed a kiss to the side of her mouth. "In the first place, if I have to tell my parents, you have to tell Potter and Weasley."

"Fair enough."

"You will never, ever tell anyone that I had to plead with you to get you into bed. We will concoct some story in which I am smooth, suave and sophisticated and incredibly talented in bed."

He kissed her again, and she murmured something that could well have been agreement. It certainly sounded like a yes, and then she pulled him closer and wound her fingers through his hair again so she could kiss him back more effectively.

"I usually… oh god… try and manage… oh yes, do that again… matters with a … mmmph… more finesse," he said, as they tried to move towards the bed without letting go of each other and whilst removing clothes.

She stopped kissing him – which he dimly thought was a bad idea – long enough to say, "Hang the finesse." Then she pushed him back on the bed, and followed him down, to take up where she had left off.

"I will have the upper hand, just this once," he said.

She giggled, which he would usually resent – no one should be giggling in bed with him – but she did allow him to roll them over, and …god… he was finally where he wanted to be, and she wasn't giggling now, was she?

Her hands were clawing at his shoulders, and her legs were locked round his back in a futile attempt to pull him closer, and she was just as filthy and dirty and magnificent as he'd ever supposed.

He did use a little more finesse the second time.

And the third.

Then she showed how much finesse she had, which turned out to be a lot.

The fifth, and sixth times they took it in turns to show off, which was only fair.

The seventh time, he barely had the energy to move and he thought his back might be broken, so it was a bit clumsy but Hermione didn't seem to mind.

There wasn't an eighth time because his cock went on strike, and his offer to demonstrate more wandless magic was met with a whimper and a plea for mercy so he buried his nose into the crook of her neck and listened to the sound of her breathing as she fell asleep.

He was no stranger to carnal delights, or waking up in the company of someone, or even several someones. What was fairly new was not being visited with a desire to kick that someone out of bed as quickly as possible.

He _liked_ Hermione.

(He supposed he would have to get used to calling her that, now that he'd had sex – lots and lots of sex – with her. You couldn't call someone by their last name when you'd had your tongue where he had.)

Tomorrow he could go and see Potter and not shout at him, which Hermione would like, and thank him for bringing them together, which would get right up Potter's nose. He smiled sleepily against her skin, and drifted off to sleep.

Life really was good when you were a Malfoy.

(The End)


End file.
